


Running With Scissors

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-20
Updated: 2004-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-31 05:04:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6457042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night after learning of Cordelia's death, Wes reflects on his life in LA and takes some time to comfort Angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running With Scissors

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

Advice given me by Father in my years under his hand:

\- Always sit up straight  
\- Never drop your shoulder before striking a blow  
\- If you must cry, for heavens sake don’t let others see you doing it  
\- Shave each morning or you’ll look like a starving indigent by noon  
\- For God’s sake, don’t flinch  
\- Don’t smile, you’ve the teeth of a jackass  
\- Don’t nancy about with the other boys; they laugh at you behind your back  
\- Only vulgarians drink before noon  
\- Look a man in the eye when he’s speaking  
\- Don’t look at him at all when you’re on your knees

I can hear him. Actually, that isn’t true. The walls here at Wolfram & Hart are sound-proof and spirit-proof and blessed by blind monks, or some such nonsense. And yet… I imagine I can hear him. He came to the bar, where Fred and Gunn and Lorne and I sat over drinks, waiting for him and Cordy to rejoin us. A family, once more.

But when Angel arrived, he was alone. Eyes flat, making absolutely no sense. 

“Dead. The doctors called – she never woke up.”

And the others stared at him for a long moment, waiting… to awaken, I suppose. And then Fred began to cry – big tears for such a small girl. Does that sound harsh? Callous? It isn’t meant to… I watched them fall, mesmerized: perfect crystal tears down perfect fragile cheeks, until Lorne took her in his arms, ever the comforter, and I was left to consider this latest news. By the time I could find words appropriate to the situation, Cordelia’s grin crowding out any intelligent thought I could form, Angel had vanished.

And now, Saturday morning. Four a.m. Angel still in his office, me in mine. I’ve finished half a bottle of scotch, on my own. My ridiculously overpriced desk is scattered with snapshots of the life I’ve chosen here; this strange, awful, beautiful life I’ve made for myself in America.

I find a picture I’d forgotten had been taken: Faith and me, when I was just beginning in Sunnydale. Buffy must have taken it. Faith looks so marvelously… unscathed. Glint of hellishness to her, and she’s frozen in mid-eye-roll, doubtless over some absurd command or other I’ve conjured in a desperate attempt to appear moderately competent. And I look so… young. Skin and bones, hairless as a plucked rat. No concept of what’s to come. 

The photos of Cordelia are plentiful – she was never one to shy from the camera. Grinning, from start to finish. Maturing beautifully, though her eyes look tired in some and the physical pain is heartbreakingly apparent in others. Still the grin, the flash of white teeth, the spark in those eyes. 

I have only one photograph from my childhood, a sterile portrait of Mother and Father, Father’s arm carefully placed ‘round Mother’s shoulders. In the five years that I have been in Los Angeles, I’ve managed to fill a shoe-box with more keepsakes than in twenty-odd years in England. 

Angel. He and I, his great arm draped over my shoulders in much the same way of Mother and Father, though it’s appalling to say that the photo of we two shows more warmth, certainly more physical contact, than is shown between my parents, married now for forty-three years. There is a rare smile on the vampire’s face – over a victory I’ve forgotten, but it must have been a sizable one to warrant such a blatant display. And I look… happy. No longer the plucked rat, grinning the jackass grin my father always warned of. 

I hear noises outside my door, or imagine I do. No – definitely noises. Could be the hundreds of armed guards under the employ of Wolfram & Hart. Or it could be…

“Angel.”

He knocks lightly on the door and enters without waiting for my reply. Perhaps the years of restricted access as vampire have made him overly opportunistic about the places he can enter at will. Or perhaps being the boss of a multi-million-dollar law firm is going to his head. At any rate, he enters without giving me time to collect myself. I sit – sprawl, rather – with my feet on the desk, drink in hand, clothes rumpled and my five o’clock shadow coming ‘round to eight or nine by now. 

“I saw your light.”

He’s been drinking as well. Glazed sorrow in those absurdly soulful brown eyes, his shirttails trailing out of his slacks… Although the mug in his hand is the real tipper. I didn’t make my living as a rogue demon slayer off my looks, after all.

My attempt to stand fails, as gravity seems abundant at the moment, and I quickly sink back into my plush office chair, motioning for Angel to sit.

“I’m looking at… photos. Keepsakes. Random instants captured in our years together,” I babble. Angel looks uncomprehending for a moment, his prominent brow furrowed, and there are times when the sheer maleness of him is somewhat – how shall I say – off-putting. The barrel chest, the thick arms, and his scent – even over the cologne, with which he at times can be somewhat overzealous – is stronger than other men’s. I’m not sure that I can describe it fully; it’s not that he smells *bad* per se. He just smells… more, somehow. He just *is* more, somehow.

Angel glances at the desk, striding over and picking up one of the pictures of Cordelia. It’s from her first year here, her hair still long, her edges still a trifle sharp. 

“She was too skinny.”

“Pardon?”

He stares at the photo for a long time. Swallows. I think of all the things that he does that are no longer required in the strictest sense, as he is not living. Sighing. Swallowing. Drinking. If his heart doesn’t beat, then his blood doesn’t flow, and if his blood doesn’t flow, it can’t carry alcohol to his brain to muddy things. Can it? I don’t understand how it works, and it seems to me that if anyone should understand, it should be me. And then he speaks again, and I forget about what I should and shouldn’t understand.

“When she first came here. She was too skinny. She worked too hard – even though we always made fun of her, said she was spoiled…” He looks troubled. “God. Did I say that? Did I tell her she was spoiled? I must have. I know I thought it. Do you think she knew I thought it?”

I struggle to my feet, noting that my blood flows just fine, thank you very much, and the scotch I’ve imbibed in the past few hours has done nothing for my lack of grace. Stumbling slightly, I go and lean against the desk, meeting Angel’s eye.

“She knew.”

“Oh God. See, I knew it. She… There was so much I needed to tell her, and I should’ve apologized, ‘cause I don’t really think that anymore,”

I realize my error, and hold up my hand to stop him. “No, Angel. She knew how you felt about her; I’m sure she understood that you didn’t think she was spoiled. I just meant… she knew. How much you cared.”

He falls silent again, and it strikes me for the first time how rare it is that he has come here. Sought someone out. The knowledge that his pain is so deep that he would be forced from his customary solitude hits me unexpectedly, and I feel tears that I make no attempt to hide. Not here. Not with Cordelia gone and a corrupt law firm under my hand and half a pint of scotch under my belt. 

There is silence for a moment before he shrugs ineptly and turns away. “Go ahead and cry, then. She’s gone. Doesn’t do any good to cry about it.”

The somber quality is gone now and there’s a trace of fury underlying his words. Ah, that overwhelming maleness again. So he didn’t come here seeking refuge after all, but rather revenge. 

“I don’t suppose she’d be terribly impressed at your stoicism at her expense. She might actually be touched at a tear or two, from you.”

“She can’t be touched. She’s dead.” 

He turns back at our exchange, taking a step toward me, his back up. I remain half-seated on the desk but carefully set my scotch away from the pictures. I don’t give a flying fig about the new carpet or the thousand-dollar office chair, but I need those pictures.

Angel fingers the photo of Faith and me, contemplating it, taunting me with a cruel smirk, and he reminds me of countless school bullies I encountered over the years. Except that I know this one, and the standing tears that he won’t let fall are all I can seem to see.

“Faith.”

I nod. “Faith.”

“You ever take a shot at her?”

I counter without hesitation. “Did you ever take a shot at Cordelia?”

He looks up at that, instantly forgetting the picture. “What’s that supposed to mean? It’s not the same.”

“Of course not. But aren’t you just talking about Faith and me so you don’t have to think about you and Cordelia?”

“We had… times.”

“Yes, you did.”

He goes from angry to morose to pure fury in the space of thirty seconds, and my alcohol-blurred brain has trouble keeping up.

“You don’t have a clue. None of you – she was the only one that was there. Through all of it. From Buffy to Doyle to Darla to Connor – ”

He stops abruptly and I try to focus, uncertain of what he’s saying. The fact that I don’t know what he’s talking about only fuels him, and he steps closer. Mere inches from me now, and he smells like Angel and he smells like whisky, and I wonder for just the briefest moment what he would taste like, before I realize I’m under attack.

“It’s all gone. And she’s the only one who knew what we lost. Gave up.” 

The look in his eye suggests that perhaps I can remedy this, but since I haven’t the faintest idea what he’s talking about, the chances of that are decidedly slim. He waits for me to back down, but I don’t even bother with that kind of thing anymore. Only delays the inevitable, whether it’s a sound beating or your throat cut straight through.

I make an attempt to stand, stumble only slightly, and straighten. Approximately. “Come on, then.” I do what he wants, because it all seems so absurd, suddenly. The building is silent, though I know there are ghouls and demons and enchanted dwarves or who-knows-what-all, lurking in the walls and the halls and behind secret panels. All in the name of truth and justice and getting the bad guy off for the Powers That Be, whoever the hell they are. And so I give him what he wants, because he’s Angel, and I’ve shed my blood how many times before this, for him.

I telegraph the punch, dropping my shoulder and giving him plenty of time to block and come at me. He does exactly that, walloping me in the chin with an undercut that pulls me off my feet. It feels strangely satisfying to be moving, and I recover quickly, rushing him with no care for grace. I hit him with all of my weight, feel his solid middle against my shoulder as I use everything I have to move him backward, up against the wall. Once he has the leverage of the wall behind him, he pushes me back easily. When I straighten, I see the left coming at me and flinch in the glare of that heavy fist before it strikes soundly, knocking me into the chair. Hard. I stumble, fall to my knees, then get back up again only to be knocked down once more by that bloody left. 

This time, I stay put. Panting, on my hands and knees, head down. Angel stands above me, and I realize that somewhere in all of this, his tears have finally begun. When I get to my feet this time, there is no blow waiting. He stands with his arms limp at his sides, shaking. I take the scotch and lead him to the sofa against the wall, and he sits obediently, taking the drink that I offer. There is no sobbing, no loss of control. There are silent tears and impenetrable pain, and I sit beside him and wait. When he finally speaks, his voice is so soft that I move in closer, just to hear.

“She was right there – I had her. They keep putting them…right there,” he holds out his arms, indicating an invisible body an arm’s length away. “They put them there, and I start to think, ‘Did I do it? Did I… save enough lives, slay enough demons, lay awake enough nights? Do I get something, now? Or is this just the next set up for the next take down?’” 

He leans back on the couch, rubbing the tears away brutally. “I don’t – I can’t do it anymore, Wes. She was here, and it all made sense. I could go on. I could fight, I could win, I could be the stupid champion they’re all chanting for. But... why keep doing this? The only time I don’t feel like I’m already dead, it’s because it feels like they’re killing me all over again.”

I move closer and he leans into me until his head is on my shoulder, my arms around him, and I can feel his breath, warm on my neck. Except he has no breath. And no heat. His body is heavy with despair and exhaustion, and he lets himself fall into me completely. I touch the back of his head, run my hand down his spine, in an awkward attempt at comfort. 

“When do I get to feel something that’s not just about pain?”

At the question, I push him back on the couch, and I don’t look at him when I run my hand down his hard stomach, though I can feel his eyes on me. It’s not about sex and it’s not about destiny – at least, I don’t think it is. It’s about comfort and it’s about friendship and, yes, it’s about love. In the instant that I pause, he realizes what is happening and wraps his hand around the back of my neck, pulling my lips to his. 

For the first time, I understand that he is cold-blooded. His mouth is delicious, cool and fresh and bruising, and I can taste his tears and I can taste my own, and I think of Cordy and how appalled and delighted she would be, at the despair she has inspired. I move to his neck, nipping his Adam’s apple, tonguing over a pulse that I know will be absent, and then trail further down. Pushing his shirt aside, relishing that maleness now, wondering once again at how blood can rush to places without aid of a pumping heart and yet, I move down and cup him through his slacks and the evidence is there. He bucks hard into my hand and I sink to my knees in front of the couch, between his legs. When he looks down at me I meet his eyes now, I don’t look away for an instant, and I allow the jackass grin. And, for a moment, I take away the pain.


End file.
